


i am small and easily frightened (sorry for breaking your nose)

by ProjectFYERBIRD



Series: devil town [1]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Moon Knight (Comics)
Genre: - marc voice - nearly threw hands with a 16 year old, Broken Bones, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hate Speech, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, Misunderstandings, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 18:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18320726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProjectFYERBIRD/pseuds/ProjectFYERBIRD
Summary: marc confronts the shadowy figure that's been following him around all night. it doesn't end well.





	i am small and easily frightened (sorry for breaking your nose)

**Author's Note:**

> ok so this isnt technically the first installment of this series but im diving straight into it bc man fuck proper chronological order and character introductions
> 
> [warnings for: attempted hate crime, racism, broken bones]

It Marc too long to realize he was being followed. Even as the back of his neck began to prickle with the feeling of being watched he could hear a faint, disproving 'tsk' coming from the bone white figure that stood somewhere at his left, just in his field of vision like the ghost of sun-bleached vulture skeleton. Maybe he'd grown too used to sensations that came with having eyes on his person during almost all his waking hours–and then beyond that, even, if he was unlucky. 

 _(as if_ _this is my fault? a voice like the rasp of silk asks. he ignores it.)_

He ignored his tail for the better part of an hour, acting like he was still blissfully oblivious of the shadowy figure following his movements from the other side of the street. Now that was aware of them he could track them out of the corner of his eyes, keeping careful watch for the movement of the shadows as someone dressed in black slunk through them, or the occasional flash of muted gold. In truth, he was leading them deeper into the district he'd been patrolling for the past three hours. To his credit, he was still actually patrolling–hooray for multitasking–evidenced by the way he snapped into action when the sharp crack of a gunshot sounded from the block ahead. He raced forward on the rooftops, white cloak billowing out behind him. For all intensive purposes and also the laws of aerodynamics it should have hindered his movement but in reality it speeded him along, pushing him forward until his feet barely touched the ground with every step. It was almost like flying. He spread it out like a pair of wings as he lept from the edge of the roof, landing in front of a small 24-hour bodega and bursting in through the window–oops, more mess. 

A man in a black balaclava was pointing a shaking gun at a Muslim woman cowering behind the counter. There was blood on the floor, smeared on the wall where cartons of cigarettes were kept locked up. Someone had already been shot; hence the gunshot from before. "Why don't you–" the man was yelling, waving the gun around, "–go back to your own country!" His finger twitched as if he was going to pull the trigger again, to paint the wall with the woman, too. He wasn't going to get the chance to. As he whirled around to face the newcomer, Marc had already sent a crescent flying towards the hand holding the gun. It sank into the flesh and pierced through the palm. The man howled in agony. He dropped the gun on the ground. It went off again as it hit the floor, but the shot went wild and missed him by a mile. The man lunged at him, arms outstretched like he meant to tackle him to the ground or strangle him. He sidestepped the sloppy charge and grabbed him by the arm, wrenching it down until he had been wrestled down to the floor. A twist of the leg braced against the arm and it broke with wet snapping sound. Blood gushed from his wounded palm when Marc tore the crescent dart back out with a single swift and brutal movement, and he yelled out again.

It was over in under a minute. 

He looked over to the woman, to tell her to call 9-1-1 and to keep pressure on the wound of whoever was shot, but he was interrupted by the crunch of glass behind him. He turned around and finally caught sight of whoever had been following him. They were of slight build and dressed in a clunky, all black outfit with a large, drippy golden eye painted on to the chest, three rays extending from the top and bottom. A hood obscured their features from him. There was a beat of silence in which they did nothing, not even breathe, just stared each other down. 

"You were following me," he said. 

They bolted. 

Of course. 

"Hey!" Marc called out, leaving the woman and the would-be hate-crimer behind and chasing after the figure darting into the alleyway ahead. He reached out and snagged their wrist, and he felt that it was stiff and hard–a wrist guard. A sharp tug had him stumbling forward as their arm was ripped from his grasp. _"Hey!"_ He lunged forward and pulled them down from the fire escape they were hooking their legs onto, slamming them into the ground. The air rushed out of their lungs in a single, punched out breath. They wheezed, struggling to draw heaving pants as they were kept pinned there by his forearm. The silvery shine of a crescent dart–not the one already covered in blood–pinched between his fingers served as the promise of a threat. "Why are you following me?" He demanded. 

It was at that moment that their hood fell back, and he found himself staring into the wide eyes and pale face of a teenager. A black bandanna they must have been using to cover their face was hanging from their neck. He rocked back onto his heels, relieving them of the weight on their chest. They scrambled backwards on their ass and hands until their back met the unyielding metal of a dumpster with a resounding clang. "Holy shit," he said. He repeated the exclamation more urgently when they lashed out at him, feet kicking out and slamming into his nose and chin. The wet snap of cartilage and resulting gush of blood alerted him to the breaking of his nose, and he fell back until his back hit the concrete and he staring up at the sky. He could see the moon, a waxing crescent, looking down on him. As he lay there groaning they made their escape, scrabbling to their feet and skittering away out the alleyway to disappear into the night. 

Khonshu's visage graced his vision promptly, standing over him and blocking his view of the moon. 

( _not that it matters. khonshu_ is  _the moon.)_

The god peered down at him with shrewd, beady eyes that glittered darkly with disappointment. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his beak like a disapproving parent might reproach a rowdy child. _"Nice,"_ he said. 

"Tanks," Marc said, rolling onto to his stomach and pushing himself back up again. He stood and stumbled against the brick wall, blinking at the following head rush. Pushing his mask up until it rested on the bridge of his nose–ow–he snapped it back into place without any ceremony. "Ugh," he said, voice still nasally. "Kid packs a good pair of legs on them." 

 _"Unfortunately for you,"_ said Khonshu. When he turned to look at him, standing there in the grimy alleyway in an impeccable white suit, he wasn't even looking in his direction. He was staring at the mouth of the alley, hands folded behind his back like he was a proper member of high-society and not an Egyptian god squatting in the brain of a mortal man. Sirens began to wail from somewhere down the street. _"You ought to get going now, my son,"_ he said pointedly. Marc heeded his advice and climbed up the fire escape until he was back on to the relative safety provided by the rooftops of various apartment complexes. From there he headed back home. There was blood soaking through his mask and down the front of his armour, and the night had proved a bust anyways. 

The next morning, or afternoon more like it, when Marc woke up there was a neon yellow post-it note stuck to the outside of his window. A surprisingly legible  **sorry for breaking ur nose :•(** was scrawled out in permanent marker. It was almost sweet, except for one thing. 

"How the fuck do they know where I live?" 

 

 


End file.
